A Good Hand
by Ophelia Glace
Summary: This is a The Lost Boys fic, as so many of mine are. It is a long term project, but each bit can be read at long intervals, just as they will be written. One of many ideas for a David alive fic.
1. Checkmate

He had never expected it to hurt quite this badly.  Pain, like death, age, and other people, was beneath him.  But it burned and ached and he could hear muscle and bone and tissue rip apart, could sense fluids mingling which should never have known each other…as the horn tore through his rib cage, David imagined he could tell what death was like.  His performance was picture perfect, if mildly Shakespearean, and he was pleased with himself, and with the control which he exercised over ever inch of his body.  To the world outside his mind, David _was_ dead.

The worst moment had come as Max repelled Michael, tossing him like a limp rag _through_ a section of the second floor balcony.  For a split second, David thought his master might win.  But no, David had played too good a hand tonight, two triples: aces and jacks, so what if it was cheating?  He'd won.  The ash on the air was all that remained of that tyrannical, patriarchal, and thoroughly uptight bastard; and after nearly a hundred years' struggle, David had the dominance.  He just wondered how long it would take to re-grow his right atrium.

Slowly, the sounds of terror, relief, and amazement cooled, and discussion of what to do next struggled to its feet, coupled with a few weak introductions.  General confusion reigned, and no one seemed particularly ready to take charge.  *Get out already,* David thought fiercely at them, as the tell-tale itching reached a furor, indicating that his chest was healing itself _onto_ the pronged antlers.  The last thing he needed tonight was to have to rip _another _set of holes in himself.  Had his fingers just twitched?  Damn it, they had.  *Get out, get out!*

"Well, we can't stay here, whatever we do, we're missing a wall and there's- Oh my God, there's blood _everywhere._"  If David had believed in God, he would have thanked him for mothers.  Lucy Emerson would take her children, in fact, all of the children, away from this 'horrible scene', as fast as her weary and confused mind would allow.  But how fast was that?  He could feel his maddeningly itching skin sealing itself to the bones, and every moment he had to lie still added to the passion he was developing for movement.

"We could spend the night at a motel; clean all of this up tomorrow."  *Good boy, Michael, good boy.*

"Have we got the-"

"I can pay for our room on my own," Star interrupted, pulling Laddie close to her, and trying to look reassuringly both at the boy, and Mrs. Emerson.  She failed miserably at both, and succeeded only in giving herself a mild headache after crossing her eyes several times.  The room in general gave her a confused look, and then, with quiet, tired murmurings and shufflings, the entire crowd began to move toward the outside (to David's unending amusement, they moved _single file through the torn-open front wall.)_

            "Hey, Mom, I had a thought.  What if Star and I stayed and picked up some clothes for all of us, and then we could catch up later?"  There was a brief pause in which Lucy gazed quietly into her son's face.  Had David been breathing, he might have held his breath, but he could hear the jingle of her earrings, the slight swish of her hair as she nodded.  It took all he had not to smile.  Not that they would have seen if he had.

            He waited, mentally cursing the quick healing which had now adhered him to the corpse on which he was impaled.  Car doors slammed, the Frogs began shouting directions to their home in competition with one another, and then the whole bothersome lot of them rolled off towards town.  David drew in an experimental breath, and grimaced; the movement of his diaphragm was restricted by the flesh holding him to the antlers.  Oh hell, there was little else for it.

            Ignoring Star and Michael, who both rushed to his side, as if he might (in his own mind, _inconceivably) need their aid, he braced himself against the table, and put all his strength into escaping his impalement.  He could not help but scream as every one of his wounds reopened, and he left a solid ring of his skin and blood around each horn.  To his silent and restricted mortification, he did need to lean heavily on Michael for a moment before he could right himself._

            "That took the two of you damned long enough."  David growled, stretching, and then prodding a curious finger into one of the gaping holes in his torso.  They just stared at him, with that mixture of awe and confusion that made the pair of them both utterly endearing, and completely irritating.  As he pulled his finger away from his injury, he caught it in his shirt, gazing ruefully at the torn and stained cotton.

"Ruined," he sighed, "and not a one of the lot of you with the good taste to own solid black."  He paused, and flicked them a meaningful look from under thick lashes, "And if you don't stop gaping, I think I'll have to smack you both.  I told you, stick to the plan and it all works out."


	2. Ace In The Hole

            Obsessions are funny, in that they swing back and forth so wildly that by the end you don't know which ways up or where you've just come from.  What's more, when you start to dig down into something, to really get under the skin, nothing is the way you thought it would be.  Say you love this rock group, and so you start learning all about their music, their lyrics, their history, their politics…  Months, and months of immersion, and suddenly you stop and look at yourself, and you simply can't stand that band.  No, not that you can't stand them, you're as dedicated to them as ever, but now you're a dedicated hater.

            I went the other way, digging myself so deeply into the folklore, the fantasy, the fiction, the mythos, that soon it wasn't about protection anymore, wasn't about hunting even, it was about finding.  Seeing them, hearing them, knowing they were real… Well, I found them, and better I followed them, and I almost got away with just watching them.  But I guess I'm not as fast or as clever as I thought.  The sad thing is… I'm okay with having been caught, and I'm okay with everything I am, and everything I will be, and everything that I've done and will do.  Tomorrow, while Alan's still asleep, while the TV in my parents' room whines at their unconscious forms, I'll leave.  

            I'm a better actor then anyone could have guessed; it's not just hate that I can fain, but terror, relief, greed…  I nearly slipped when I saw him, I'm glad no one was looking at my face.  He's too good an actor, I thought…thought we'd been betrayed.  Just for a moment, I thought we'd been had.  Pretty stupid, I guess…no one gets one over on David, probably because he never tells anyone his entire plan.  Bastard nearly gave me a heart attack…

***************

            The watery sunlight filtered down through thick fog, which any native could tell would soon cement into heavy, black rain clouds.  Through the throngs of freaks that plagued the Santa Carla summer, a lone resident shuffled wearily.  He was dressed in army surplus, complete down to the small duffel bag slung over his shoulder.  Though he walked alone, he seemed to clear a path through the crowds that was greater than himself, as if something massive moved with him, unseen and ominous.  Slowly he wandered out of the town, down, onto the deserted edges of the beech, where the cliffs had been known to crumble, and only a few brave idiots dared to tread he walked on, arms swinging slightly at his side, head hung down, eyes on his shoes.

            Where the cliff side sloped down into a hill, he turned to the ascent, climbing through the strand of scraggly pine and up onto the bare plateau.  He stood, for a moment, watching the sun's weak rays struggle to gleam on the water, and then he shook his head, and shuffled on, disappearing into the rocks as if he'd never been there at all.  They were waiting.

********************  
  
            David laughed quietly at the shock and confusion of his three companions; Star and Michael with their dropped jaws, and wide-eyed accusations, Edgar's taut, strained posture, like a prey-animal about to make a bolt for its hole.  The best part about having a party in the dark is when the lights go on, and the guests see each other face to face.  "Come here, kid," he motioned for Edgar to stand beside him, and slowly, stiffly, the boy came to him.  "Star, Michael, meet my ace in the hole."  And as they kissed, the dark haired pair felt the ocean closing in over their heads, though not together.  Each, alone, in their own private councils had had a vision of victory; they had both seen themselves standing _there_, where Edgar stood.  They had been jilted, had sold their souls for nothing at all.  They had been spent like money, played like cards, used like cheap rubber gloves. 

            They were drowning.


End file.
